


At the End of the Day

by iamfitzwilliamdarcy



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Teenage Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12825270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamfitzwilliamdarcy/pseuds/iamfitzwilliamdarcy
Summary: Being a teenager is hard. Being the butler and sole guardian of a teenaged Bruce Wayne is harder.





	At the End of the Day

It’s very rare that Bruce is ever actually where he is supposed to be. It drives Alfred near to insanity, but it’s not new. It grew worse, after his parents had died, but there has never been a time Alfred can’t find him, with a little effort.

Today, when he’s supposed to be at dinner, Bruce is, instead, wheeled under a car. Alfred clears his throat, and when Bruce doesn’t wheel himself out, sets his foot on the creeper and drags it back, saying, “I was under the impression you failed your driving test.” 

Bruce glares up at him through a blackened eye. “I’m working,” he says, face flushed a little. 

Alfred stares right back, mouth twisting into a stern frown. He hadn’t had a call from the school about fighting, but he had dropped Bruce off himself that morning at the gates of Gotham Academy perfectly bruise free. Bruce notices him studying the eye, but he remains tight lipped. 

“You should be eating,” Alfred reprimands.

“It’s dinner?” Bruce asks, surprised. He glances past Alfred to the open door and setting sun and frowns. He moves back to the car, rests a hand on it. “I can’t get it to start.”

It’s an old car of his father’s, an engine he’s built himself. Alfred had told him there was probably more wrong with the car than just an engine, but some things Bruce insisted on figuring out himself. 

“Long past dinner,” Alfred says. “Have you been here this whole time?” 

“It won’t work,” Bruce repeats, voice snagging in frustration.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, almost sharply. They both know what Bruce is avoiding. “Dinner, shall we?”

“I’m not hungry,” he says, mulishly. 

“Be that as it may,” Alfred says. Relents after a moment and sighs. “After you eat, I’ll help you get it started in time for the dance Friday and pointedly forget that you are not, legally, allowed to drive.”

Bruce grimaces. “I’m not hungry,” he repeats. Continues, “I don’t want your help. And I’m not going to the dance on Friday.” At Alfred’s look, he adds, “It’s frivolous.” 

Alfred pauses, collects, and says, “The young lady who agreed to go with you will be very disappointed to hear that.”

Bruce says, voice clipped, face smooth, not looking at Alfred, “Clarissa will be going to the dance with Anthony DeLorenzo. My presence, I am sure, will hardly be missed.”

Ah. Alfred moves, lets his hand rest on Bruce’s shoulder for a moment. He’s still scrawny, at 16, but he takes after his father and Alfred knows he’ll fill out, grow broad, even if he didn’t work so hard at his martial arts lessons. 

“Never you mind, Sir,” he says. “Plenty of other young ladies out there.” 

As if Master Bruce concerns himself frequently with girls. As if him asking someone to a dance at all hadn’t taken weeks of preparation, as if he hadn’t been secretly thrilled when she said yes.

“I don’t,” he said, but his breath hitched a little. Alfred hasn’t seen Bruce cry since he was twelve and had informed him, primly, that he need not go to any lengths for Bruce’s birthday as no one would be in attendance. 

He steps back, lets Bruce have his space. Asks, “Is the state of your eye related to this?”

“Not exactly.” Bruce draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He’s quiet for a while longer, and then says, “I went into the city after school.”

Alfred raises his eyebrows. “You told me--,”

“I know,” Bruce says quickly. “I lied. Sorry.”

He doesn’t sound very, but Alfred lets it slide. He’s lied about worse before. Lets him continue. 

“It’s not really important,” Bruce qualifies. Pauses again and shrugs. “I just ran into a group of guys from school messing around with a stray cat. I told them to stop. That’s it.”

There were underlying issues as well, Alfred was sure; Bruce was abrasive, had a habit of irritating his peers, even without meaning to. Alfred doesn’t ask more about it, doesn’t ask how it’s “not exactly related,” can figure out well enough that this Anthony DeLorenzo must have been one of the boys involved. 

He asks, instead, “Did you bring the cat home with you?”

Bruce shakes his head. “It wouldn’t let me close to it and then ran off.”

His breath is even again, his voice not in danger of shaking. Alfred knows Bruce has decent control over himself, isn’t sure if he’s putting a mask on now, but he figures this is fine, for now. 

“Come eat,” Alfred tells him. “Look at the engine again with fresh eyes, later.”

Bruce doesn’t move for a moment, looking hard at the car. He’s built the engine up himself, has been tinkering with it for months. All self-taught. Instead of protesting, he says, “I applied for that internship. The one with the GCPD and the FBI.” 

“Very good, sir,” Alfred says. He claps his hand to Bruce’s shoulder again, gives it a fond pat and turns him to guide him out of the garage and back to the Mansion. Bruce lets himself be guided. 

He gets the rejection letter from the internship Friday, while his classmates are getting ready for the dance. 

He gets his car to start the same day. 

Alfred leaves him be.

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this was supposed to be so idk what it turned into but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
